The Pain of Waiting
by Lia Silverfrond
Summary: A companion piece to AppleCiderVinegar's piece Titanic. "There HE is, and Alfred’s almost to the point of tears with relief."


Standard Disclaimer: I make no money off this. Written as a companion piece to AppleCiderVinegar's story "Titanic."

The telegram from Scotland was written by AppleCiderVinegar. Go read her story called "Titanic" here: .net/s/5306820/1/Titanic.

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April 15, 1912, Washington D.C.

He's only going about his duties as a country when he hears the news. The unsinkable ship, the Titanic has sunk, though there were no lives lost. His heart stops for a moment, though he can't place why, and he continues with his duties, though it's more from habit than from actual want. When he's finished work at last, he heads off to the telegram office, wanting to send a message to the Isles, though it's probably far too late at night to actually send it without causing someone, somewhere to complain about this but he doesn't care. It's sent and he retires to his bed, unaware of what the next day will bring.

April 16, 1912, Washington D.C.

He's barely woken the next morning, drinking his coffee and reading the paper when he freezes on the page, a survivor's list. The paper… the paper the morning before had said no one had died. Why was there a survivor's list?! He's frantically hurrying towards telegram's office when he's intercepted by a boy carrying a telegram for him. He blinks confusion growing as he reads it, heart growing colder at the words written down: ALFRED STOP HEARD THE TITANIC WENT DOWN STOP ANY WORD FROM ARTHUR STOP HE WAS ON HIS WAY TO SEE YOU FULL STOP. The coffee that he's been carrying with him is ice cold as he tries to take a sip, but his hands are shaking so badly that the coffee splashes onto his white shirt, staining it, the cup breaking as he loses his grip on it. He doesn't remember sinking to his knees but he's there, shaking and trembling, the crumpled telegram in his hands.

He doesn't go to work that day, sending away his staff, ignoring the summons of the President, the Cabinet, and the Senate. He doesn't care if they can't figure out what's wrong, he won't tell them, he can't tell them. They wouldn't understand. It'd be a horrible accident in their mind, but they wouldn't understand why he was such a wreck, unable to do the most basic things without shaking, without almost breaking down in tears. He doesn't sleep that night, instead he lays away, curled in a ball in the center of his huge bed, wishing for once that it was 1650 and he were curled in the bed with Arthur instead of here alone, not knowing if Arthur survived (it's unlikely, that damn man is too stubborn to attempt to get into a lifeboat when there are women and children present).

He attempts to keep locked in his room the next day but he's drawn out by a telegram arriving for him. It says Arthur's alright, but he's unable to believe it, there's not enough cursing in it to be Arthur. Or maybe, maybe he was so sure that he'd get out alive that he gave it to another passenger to send once they got rescued. He let's out a sob, but he gets dressed anyways, and within two hours, he's on a train, heading to New York to meet the Carpathia when she pulls into dock. He spends the next day waiting, and praying, he's always been religious though he's tried out many different religions in his time. He's praying a catholic prayer at the moment, little gold cross around his neck feeling heavy as he prays, promising anything that anyone listening might want if only to find Arthur has survived.

April 18, 1912, Pier 54, New York City, NY

The pier is packed when he arrives, and he has to fight to get close to see the passengers disembarking. A darkness settled over his mind as he saw people coming off the ship but no ashy-blond haired guys to be seen, and then, a set of eyes. He shoves past a group of men waiting for their ladies, not caring of the swears and profanities he received in his attempts to get past them. There HE is, and Alfred's almost to the point of tears with relief. He scoops him up, not caring of what anyone will think and he bursts straight into tears, sobbing. Arthur's mouth opens, to scold him but he closes it again and Alfred can't be sure if it's because he's crying or not. He stands there for a moment, still holding onto Arthur before he starts back through the crowd, still holding Arthur, stumbling and hardly able to see. And then they're out of the crowd, and Arthur's asking to be put down.

He can't bring himself to speak but he complies, setting the Englishman on his own feet, though he doesn't let go of him, like he might disappear if he does. He's talking, saying something stupid like he thought he wouldn't see Arthur ever again, that he was gone or something, but he's not listening, he feels like he's babbling on when Arthur takes his face and kisses him, hard, in the rain on the pier, all manners gone as he kisses him, reassuring both of them that _this_ is real. Arthur's all business again as they break apart, breathing lightly, easily again, asking where he might find a cup of proper English tea. Alfred simply laughs, laughs and holds him close as he signals a cab, relieved that they are both safe. As time goes on, everything goes back to normal, so it seems, at last until 1997, and the release of _that _movie.


End file.
